I luv Jockboys

[user211201]

Born to be a father

--- Originally posted on 2024-07-10 by breedertfs ---

--- Want to read more? View all stories by breedertfs ---

I'm a gay man in my early 20's. I know I'm young but I keep having these thoughts.....or this desperate need to be a father. I don't understand where it's coming from.

That's your body telling you how things are gonna be now, bro. This is your new normal.

It's in your muscle memory - even if you claim to have never wanted to be a breeder before now. This urge to spread your seed has been lying dormant in your DNA, just waiting for your desires to waken inside your throbbing cock and for the hunger for wet pussy to cloud your rational mind. Don't you love the way I talk about women and their bodies? The way the men in my stories just can't help but to suck on a pair of fat, bouncing tits? How their thick, slobby tongues want nothing more than to slide between some wet, slick pussy lips?

Imagine the squelch, the squirt, the sound of her high pitched moaning. The way her eyelids will flutter when you unleash your hot, thick load inside her.

You're rock hard, bro. Don't deny it. Your hips buck with pleasure, your package feels so fat and hot, your wide cock head rubbing the fabric of your underwear with each needy thrust you make. The young gay man who made his home inside your mind finds himself surrounded by a sudden harem of hot women, blondes and redheads and brunettes, all with their huge breasts exposed and their greedy fingers between their juicy thighs. This makes you moan in the outside world, your boner raging as you continue to gyrate, your work pants growing taut around your much stronger, hairier legs.

"Yeah, you like that, bitch?" an unfamiliar voice speaks from your lips, bristles of dark hair framing your strengthening jaw. Your hands grow larger and callused, reaching out in front of you and gripping around the waist of an imaginary slut. Your eyes turn dark and brooding, your once youthful face growing older and more grizzled. The strange voice continues to deepen and shift as you moan, your arms growing thick with muscle as your larger fingers pretend to reach towards a pair of jiggling tits. You swear you've never touched a set of breasts before, but your new body can conjure the feeling so easily, as if you were just squeezing a pair the very night before. Perky nipples under your fingertips, jiggling flesh in your palms. It's so natural. "Fuck. Tell Daddy what a needy whore you are."

Your once trendy hair pulls back into your scalp and darkens, becoming a close cropped masculine hairstyle. Your work clothes become more professional, colorful pastel shirt becoming a simple short sleeved blue button up, your khakis fading into simple denim. You're a straight man, after all. You don't feel the need to dress up or stand out. You just feel the need to push your cock into a wide open cunt, to feel the pussy juice accepting your shaft and allowing your nine inches to slide right in. Your nuts swell inside your underwear, full of virile seed that desperately wants to be fired into a waiting womb. You moan again, drool sliding down your stubbled chin, your expression taken over by primal lust.

The former you is still trapped inside his mind, staring at the group of women that have him cornered. To his horror, he watches as the moaning bimbos begin to cry out louder, reaching their soft hands up to grab their breasts as each of their tits begin to swell with milk. The old you watches in horror and amazement, all these big boobed beauties suddenly taking it to a new level, but your awe settles into shocked terror as suddenly all of the women begin to reach down to their stomachs, which begin to rapidly inflate as pussy juice squirts and runs down their trembling legs. In a matter of seconds, your fading former self is trapped with a harem of pregnant women. Everywhere you look is a wet cunt, a fat tit dribbling milk, a pair of kissable lips sighing a moan.

The old you doesn't stand a chance inside the mind of a breeder. He begins to shake, his image blurring and beginning to fade, all of his youth and former goals burning away to make room for the superior man who has made your body his home. Inside and out. This is you. The women in your mind are just memories of former and future conquests alike, an endless sea of women that will swell with your seed and raise your children. Nothing turns you on more than this. You have found your purpose in life.

And there's no shame in that. You want to be a father because you were quite literally born to be a father. And now, my dear friend, your new body is going to make sure you have no choice but to be fruitful and multiply.

Better clock in those hours at your new office job. You're gonna have a lot of hungry mouths to feed - and no shortage of women to impregnate.

[user211201]

Breedertfs Story Index

This author also went by the following names:

Hogtfs

Shapedbydesire

Stories:

A Bad Wet Dream

A better ride

A better son

Arabian Nectar

Drawn

Better use of a twink

Born to Breed

Born to be a father

Chet

Don't be a queer, be a breeder

Frat Boy Fantasy

OnlyWishes

Put a sock in it

Set free

Shady Unit

Stop babe

Stud Pride

What You Desire

Taboo

That Wish Stinks

Thrift Shift: Camo Hat

This post will be updated this week as I reposted/reblogged more stories.

[breedertfs-deactivated20240831]

Away With Anxiety

“I wish I could stop feeling so anxious when my brother comes around with all his friends.”

Miles sighs as he turns down his cherry pop music, already grimacing at the lewd taunts and jeers he can hear coming from downstairs. The last thing he needs is for his brother, Mark, and his pack of bros to come and pull a prank on him again. The twink shudders as he remembers one particular sleepover, waking up to a hairy asshole puckering right in front of his shocked face, and not at all the kind the gay man wanted to rim. He barely had time to mutter a question before a hot stream of air encased his head in the fetid musk, shooting the raw stench of protein and Mexican food up his nose. Even now, his nostrils burn from the memory. Guys like that only know how to think with their muscles and their cocks, so amused by their own bodies that even farts and burps are enough to start a whole conversation about. He hears them now, feet thumping on the ground loudly as they shift their hulking frames about, blasting protein farts out of their asses. “Wait, dudes, listen! Mine are way louder than Brad’s.”

He groans, rubbing his fingers against his temples, remembering the wish he just made only moments ago. Back turned to the window, he misses the shooting star that passes overhead, but he feels the sudden rush of heat that takes over his body.  He leans forward, a weird feeling pulsing inside of his stomach, like energy that is begging to be set free. “I wouldn’t feel so anxious if they didn’t make fun of me for being short,” his mouth says against his will, as if that was the answer he had been hoping for. But he feels the itch along his shins, the steady creak of bone that causes him to stare down in panic, a hot flash of pain and then pleasure as he feels himself rising to stand taller. No longer resting averagely in the middle of five foot and steadily surpassing six, going further still. He once heard Mark’s friends say a real alpha dude should at least be six foot and then have enough extra inches to match the length of his cock. His memories shift slightly, his frame still lithe and thin, but now he recalls always having been built like a beanpole. His joints burn in pure bliss, his frame reforming. He’s stood six foot and eight inches as long as he can remember.

Miles gasps as his cock instantly thickens to the width of a beer can and shoots up to a solid eight inches, bobbing up and down and rubbing against the mesh material of his red shorts. He is torn between fear and confusion and pure arousal, forgetting that he had been wearing denim shorts only moments ago, now going commando and spreading his long, thin legs wide. “Oh my god,” he pants, suddenly struck with the libido and horniness of a man with an insatiable fat cock, his large body desperate to release and gain energy. “I wouldn’t feel so anxious if I was just as muscular as them.” Once again, his voice speaks on its own accord, now a little harsher and with more of a bovine, broish vocal fry. He is powerless to stop himself from giving in to the wave of energy, barely having the time to run a hand along his suddenly bare, shirtless, bony chest before said thin chest suddenly explodes into a set of two meaty pecs. His sausage like fingers grip to them tightly, enjoying the jutting of his sensitive nipples against his calloused palms, the way he can feel his bloating biceps rubbing against the sides of his wide torso, chafing, his thighs closing the gap, his ass becoming a globe worth worshipping. He sniffs, smelling a wafting cloud of sweat and man musk, and he can’t stop himself from lifting his arms and breathing in deep, the effort of his transformation causing the newly massive, hunky young man to sweat loads from his every pore.

“And you know what else, bitch boy?” the crude voice chides, reaching down to adjust his bulge in his shorts, enjoying the feeling of his low hanging, heavy bull nuts swaying as his cock lurches forward and back. “I don’t feel anxious knowing we all share the same interests. I’ve been part of the crew since day one, man, why the fuck were you even worrying over this shit?” Miles’ face twists with anger and annoyance, and he panics within himself as he begins to lose mobility over his body. Miller begins to override the last vestiges of the twink he once was, his form repurposing into an exact replica of the trademark stereotype of his older bro and his best friends. He doesn’t feel nervous at all, in fact he wants to be done and over with this shit so he can go and hang, to talk about all the chicks they wanna knock up- wait, what? “Well, duh, dude. I’m not anxious when they talk like pigs about girls because that’s how I talk about girls. The only purpose for their cunts is for me to seed them. I’m the biggest pussy hound of the bunch.” Miles wails on the inside, his identity and his sexuality being shoved into a faraway prison within his mind, making way for Miller to strut his stuff and pass on his superior genes to the next generation. Babes love choking on his cock so much that it would be cruel to deprive them of it. Miller moans loudly as he bucks his hips, not caring about coming across as lewd. To him, there’s nothing better than watching a bimbo sway back and forth as he rams his length in and out of her dripping slit, watching her breasts jiggle. Miles wants to cry and claw his way out of the cage he’s been shoved into, but Miller simply needs to take a shit.

He lets a fat one rip without a second thought, lifting a tree trunk sized, hairy leg and scrunching his face. He can feel the hot hiss of air leave his ass, the familiar stench of rotten eggs and protein and spice wafting into his nose, making his new host and master breathe in proudly with smug satisfaction. “Brad and Jacob can both eat my sweaty hairy ass, we all know my farts are the loudest. I’m not anxious about that, for sure. I’m the smelliest guy in the locker room.” He flexes his biceps, staring in admiration at his swollen muscles, enjoying the sight of his dripping, matted armpit hairs just beneath that. Miles would have never stood for allowing himself to get this grimy and hairy and bloated, but that’s exactly why he had always been so nervous in the real world, wasn’t it? Of course he felt anxious around superior men; only fellow alphas can stand with the pack. As far as Miller cares to think about it, Miles is better off being scared inside his head than on the outside. That’s what his toxic masculinity tells him anyway, repress any feelings and only care about the grind. He pulls out his phone, now changed to a basic black case with a cracked screen, matching the basic and low maintenance decorations of his new room. Tubs of protein powder and weights litter the ground and shelves, posters of babes he has jacked off to more times than he can count gazing down at him. He messages a few of the chicks he’s hoping to fuck at the rager tonight, pawing his meaty bulge and letting loose another sputtering, rank fart from his asshole.

“Oh, shit! I think Miller is up, bros, plug your fuckin’ noses.”

He laughs and bounds down the stairs, ignoring the pleas of the dweeby voice inside his head and relishing in the energy of being around his bros, wanting nothing more than their attention and camaraderie. He still needs to shit, but now he wants to do it in the downstairs bathroom with the door open, just so his bros can hear just how not anxious he is being around them.

Wish granted, Miles. Have fun finally being able to hang out with your brother and all his friends without being scared… outwardly, I mean.

Cry all you want, but an alpha stud like Miller only has reasons to smile.

Getting to be in a close space with his best bros and judging fat bimbo tits together all night at the club? Sounds like heaven to him, broski. On the drive over he’ll be sure to roll up the windows, lock the doors, and Dutch oven the fuckers with his gnarly farts for the laughs. No one represents the values of the squad more than Miller, after all.

How could he be anxious when this is all he’ll ever know?

[joshslater]

A Star is Born

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

“It’s not just porn. The adult industry is much more than that. Unlike Hollywood there is room for more narrow interests, and more diversity in actors. Obviously the revenue per title is smaller, but the production overhead is too, so you could still get some decent cash.”

I had changed to my sincere voice, somewhat undercut by the venue and the thumping music in the nightclub, but otherwise I had stacked everything I could against him.

“I don’t know, man.” He was still unconvinced, but I knew now it was self-doubt, not stigma that held him back. He didn’t think he had neither the looks nor the body.

“You’re exactly what I need. You don’t even have to be naked. $200 for a few minutes of dry humping. Then we can see what the response is.”

He sat silent, nodding slightly to the music and making up his mind. “What would your mates say?” I asked, already knowing the answer. In his friend circle he would move up in rank, being seen as desirable and virile.

“Ok, I’ll do it.”

The first shoot I keep very much on his terms. We have a large couple of warehouses in the old paint factory that closed where we can fit a lot of different sets, though you can’t use two sets near each other due to the noise. I made sure the studio was empty by the time he arrived to avoid any second thoughts. I let him use his own clothes for the same reason. We go to the “boy room” set and I hand him a baseball bat. “Just walk in through the door, pick up the bat, put it between your legs, and grind on it for a bit. Just pretend it’s the best fucking experience you’ve ever had.”

I take the camera and he awkwardly follows my instructions. It’s very stiff up until the bat is between his legs, when suddenly his whole performance changes. He slowly teases the bat in and out, polishes the base of the handle with one hand, keeps the bat in place with both legs and moves his hands like his jacking off a huge wooden dick, rhythmically buckles his whole body while riding that bat, in and out, while his ever louder moans turn into an uncontrolled scream of pleasure as he comes in his jeans.

He’s trapped.

He’s looking confused, shocked almost, as I wrap up the shoot. He’s barely listening to what I tell him about publishing dates and payment details, as he is walking behind me toward the exit with a dazed look on his face. He just can’t believe what he had just done. Not the recording of erotic content for the internet, well only partially, but mostly that he would be so good at it. He’d bragged of course to his group of mates what a stud he was, like they all did, but any of the girls he’d slept with would rate him “fine” at best, and he knew that. But here he had been like possessed by a gogo dancer.

There isn’t any visible cum stain on his jeans yet when I take the bat from him and tell him goodbye. It will probably not soak through at all, but it will be on his mind all the way home. There will be a lingering feeling of unease, pride, confusion, and horniness that he can’t shake over the following days. He’ll have boners more often than even as a teen, and jack off multiple times a day. Every time with a big release and trembling orgasm. He might hook up with some of the girls he knows to relieve his constant horniness, and find that he is a much better lover than he used to be, but can’t last very long. Most importantly it will only give him a very short-lived relief.

By the time I call him a week or so later he’s desperate to film. I ask him to come in later that afternoon, making him disrupt whatever else he has already planned. He shows up right on time though, slightly out of breath, and with a visible bulge in his jeans. This time there are a few people around in the studio. A painter is finishing up the new frat room set, dirtying the area around a light switch with a paint-dipped sponge as we walk by. Once we carefully pass by the “boy room” set a pair of twinks are fucking on the bed surrounded by a cameraman, a boom boy, and the director. He’s torn between his old impulse to look away in modesty and his new one to see as much as possible. He doesn’t slow down, but he is taking in everything.

I lead him to our private gym. It doubles as a movie set, but all the equipment there is legit and used by all the talent in between shoots. “The guy on top is Xander XeXy,” I tell him.

“What?” He looks confused.

“The guy you watched in the room I filmed you in. He’s been trending a lot.” I can see reality intruding. He realizes this is a business with porn actors doing porny things, seen by the public. “Oh. OK.”

He doesn’t follow up so I move on to our business at hand. I hand him his next outfit, a maroon sweatshirt, grey gym shorts, white crew socks, and a pair of Nike sneakers with orange details. No underwear. The sweatshirt has a yellow sigil printed on the front looking like any college emblem, unless you read the “Professional Porn Actor” around the rim of the sigil. At first he looks a bit lost, like he’s wondering where he’d change outfit, until he realizes we just walked past two naked men fucking.

He gets naked and his dick stands attention as soon as it’s out of his briefs. He doesn’t look at me, awkward about being alone with a man, naked and with a boner, for the first time in his life. The moment he lets go of the grey sweatpant shorts, the tent his erect dick made collapses and the dick hangs down one of the shorts legs. It’s the same size as when it was erect though.

I pick up the camera and start shooting, directing him to get onto the treadmill and start running. His sloppy dick isn’t really visible through the thick shorts fabric, but you can see from the movement that it’s swinging inside. After that warmup I continue to direct him on what equipment to use, what exercises to do, and with what configuration. Light weights, many repetitions. I however ask him to repeat the sets several times to give me multiple camera angles to cut between. At least that’s what I tell him. Then when he is all damp and flush after the thorough session I tell him to start over from the beginning and do all of them once more. This is the only usable footage, because otherwise it would be obvious how much he’s changed in just two hours.

He looks about the same on the treadmill, though way more athletic, an inch wider shoulders and a few inches shorter, with his dick flopping around. Then it starts getting interesting. During squats we can see a tent forming, and by the time we’re recording bench presses there is a very noticeable straining of fabric going on. Much bigger than was going on before, though perhaps unsurprising given the size of his now much larger flaccid dick.

We move to the locker room set and I have him stretch a bit, feeling himself up after the workout, before sitting down and cool for a bit. Then on the bench he starts to tease out his rock-hard dick from his shorts. He takes the balls out too and just stares at them for a bit. I’m still recording of course, but I haven’t told him to do this. He doesn’t know why he did it. “It’s what would happen in a porno, and we’re recording one,” is how he rationalizes it for himself. At the same time he wonders why he did it unprompted. Deeper yet he is confused about how his dick is suddenly way larger than when he stepped out of his jeans just hours ago.

He grabs it, leans back against the lockers, and begins to stroke himself. It is already slippery from sweat and pre, and makes a wet noise as he lets his hand move up and down the shaft. As the shoot before he begins to moan loudly, and goes on for a good 5 minutes until he erupts in shot after shot of cum landing on his sweatshirt and his shorts. As before he is looking shocked and confused as I wrap up the shoot and he finds himself on a porn set, drenched in sweat, and with several ropes of cum on his clothes.

He slowly puts his deflating dick back into the shorts while I come to the rescue with a towel to clean up the worst of the cum. I tell him it was great, that he’s a real natural, while I nudge him to his feet and walk him back out through the studio. I tell him he should consider doing workouts regularly. That he looked great doing them here and people would love watching him doing more. He’s still in that post-orgasm glow, but nods politely while looking at the now empty sets to see if he can get another glimpse of any action. At the entrance I hand him a promo card for the Xander XeXy series and thank him once again. He’s well out the door before he’ll starts to wonder what happened to his old clothes, deciding to pick them up another time.

He’ll be hard again before he gets home, and he’ll be self-conscious about the big dick being hard to miss as it moves around unrestrained, bouncing against the fabric of the shorts. Then he’ll have a few days of uncomfortable discoveries. He’s just as horny as before, but instead of constantly orgasming and getting hard again he’s lasting much, much longer. He’s not interested in getting together with any of the girls he has on speed dial to ease hard dick issues though. Nor does his usual porn appeal to him. Instead he’s just lying in bed, pumping himself for an hour or two until he explodes in loud orgasms. Maybe an hour later he starts firming up again.

He’s giving excuses to avoid meeting any of his group of friends. The shirts don’t fit his broader shoulders anymore and his trousers either don’t fit at all, or show a big dick outline. When he does show up for a night out he finds himself distracted, like nothing he used to like about going out interests him anymore. He’s introduced to a new girl. “He records some adult videos,” his mate says with a wink. “I can see why,” she responds, staring at your groin and licking her lips. She just looks so boring to him. It’s getting more and more difficult for him to orgasm and he doesn’t even see the point of having sex. He feels like a soda bottle, and masturbating or sex is just someone shaking it without opening it.

He’s getting a pair of compression shorts to wear under his gym shorts, and a membership to the cheapest gym within reasonable distance. Something about looking great and others watching got stuck in his head. He’s following the same routine as in the shoot, and really putting in an effort. To his surprise he can see some of the other men glancing his way. He likes it. If only they knew how hard he was while they were watching him, he’s thinking. Perhaps they too were hard watching him. Suddenly his fantasy is pushing him to the edge and he is overcome with the desire to finish. He runs to the locker room and find the most private place he can, though nothing is truly private there, and starts working his big dick. It’s not unlike the latest scene he recorded, but this time there are people within earshot hearing him moan. He’s sure of it. His cum explosion is more under his control this time, so he doesn’t look unreasonably untidy, at least not given his previous hard workout. Hardly any visible stains that can’t be explained as sweat.

The few people in the locker room behaves as if they didn’t hear anything, but he knows they would have to. He blushes as he rushes out and jogs back home, his mind again a jumble of emotions. Back home he strips naked, puts on the “Professional Porn Actor” sweatshirt, loads the Xander XeXy video from the business card URL, and coming again several times over the next few hours.

By the time I call him next time he’s into a routine. Workout at the gym every day, a run home, and an hour or two of wanking to Xander videos. It takes longer and longer for him to get off. Physically he’s changed further. Dropped perhaps another inch, massively improved muscle definition, and a whole lot of extra chest muscles. Most of all though his body fat has continued to climb down, making his face look much younger and leaner. His friends have mostly given up on him, or at least decided to come back later when he isn’t so occupied with his latest obsession.

I call him in the middle of wanking, asking him if he wants a supporting role for the next Xander video. I can almost hear his precum drooling. I tell him that it’s a bit of a bad boy on bad boy, so he needs to be outfitted properly. Nothing permanent of course, but it would fit the scene if he got some piercings. Doesn’t have to be anything crazy, but perhaps a ring in each ear and studs through the nipples. I could of course just do it myself, but I want him to find a place, book a time, feel the procedure, and then anticipate the shoot for a few days.

He shows up on time, hard and horny. He hasn’t been able to come for the past few days. He’s wearing his new golden earrings, the porn actor sweatshirt, but compression shorts and blue jeans. Xander is already there, shaking his hand and greeting him by name. It always makes such a big impact when the guy you’ve been masturbating to for two weeks is just as stunning in real life, and knows your name. I quickly move along to our garage set, with a shutter door to the outside, to snap him out of his daze a bit. Partly to be professional, but party to not make him too comfortable with Xander yet. Just before the garage I have them strip and put on the dirt bike kit I’ve laid out for them. Thick polyester pants, slinky polyester shirts, boots, gloves, helmets, and goggles. All of it Fox Racing branded.

The glossy material of the shirt hangs off of his sizable chest and you can see a hint of the piercings through the material in certain poses, but his focus on the upper pec muscles makes the nipples point slightly out and down. I’ve told Xander to keep it cool initially, so there’s no talking between them. For this shoot I’ve also gotten a boom boy and a cameraman, so I’m free to only direct.

First I have them mount the dirt bikes, some cheap 125cc ones we got that look aggressive with lots of open space, black mechanical parts, and the rest in striking green for one and blue for the other. Then they ride out a bit, turn around, and we start rolling. They ride into the garage, kill the motors, and dismount. Then they do a bit of teasing each other, while they remove more and more gear. Googles, gloves, helmet, shirt.

He’s too into looking Xander’s naked chest up and down to notice he is hairless and bronzed. They play a bit until Xander pushes him onto the flatbed with rugs and crap on it. I cut and before we continue with the sex part we need to set up the fixed cameras we cut between. With Xander on break and the rest of the crew rigging I walk up to him and tell him he was great. Then I push him every so slightly on the abdomen and a small amount of oil leaks out of his pores, covering him with a glistening sheen that makes the muscles pop in the light. It’ll lock him into that greasy twink look we’ve been looking for.

[joshslater]

The Proposal

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

I had to admit it really was a beautiful spot, just as he had promised. You could see the wheat fields stretching out for miles below the slope, golden in the afternoon glow. They were perfectly framed by the trees on either side of our parking spot, giving off that wonderful late-summer fragrance of hot greenery and hay. All of it wasted on me, my attention focused on the man sitting beside me on the truck flatbed, also fragrant with tobacco and hot afternoon man.

"You'll love it," he said with that local twang. "I can set you up in your own room if you like. Take it slow, you know, so you can settle in. There's so much work." My heart was racing as I looked him over. Lean, farm-built muscles, wrapped in late-summer tanned skin, poured into blue jeans and a cutoff shirt that didn't leave much to the imagination. He wasn't magazine cover shredded, but you could tell that if he ever bothered to cut he'd have abs like any model. The shitty tattoo peaking out on his back would probably keep him off the front pages though.

He turned and our eyes met. He had kind, greenish eyes. I wanted to look away, but his gaze was magnetic. "Fuck, you're cute," he said and smiled. We just stared for seconds. "You'll need some new clothes though to blend in. And a haircut," he said and ruffled my hair. "We'll do something about that tonight. Hang on, I'll get something. Stay here!"

He jumped off the flatbed in a well-rehearsed athletic leap and walked around to get something from the passenger's side. I wanted to jump off the truck too, run down the green hill, and into the fields below, but I remained as he had said. In a moment he was back with an opened beer can in his hand. Just as swiftly, despite the logger boots, he was back on the bed next to me. "I think you should get a tattoo also. Not a branding exactly, but something that shows you belong." He rubbed his thumb against my shoulder. "I can get Dylan to do it."

He looked out over the fields and took another big swig from the can, but backwashed quite a bit back into the can. "Here, drink this," he said and handed over the almost full can. I took a big sip. It wasn't as bad as I had feared. He must have stored it in a cooler because while it wasn't exactly cold, it was way cooler than the hot inside of the truck. I was about to take another sip when I could feel the tingle again. It was almost like the feeling of your leg falling asleep, but in your brain. I've been feeling it for about an hour now, though less and less, ever since he stepped out of his truck at the gas station, put his hand on me where I was filling up my car, and said "Be silent. You belong to me now. Do as you are told."

"Empty the can," he said. "I want you completely obedient before we get home, and fully broken in by tomorrow morning. I want you unrecognizable by the end of the week, in case the sheriff comes looking for some missing person." I felt desperation and panic surging in me. This would be my last chance to escape. I wanted to fight him, though probably futile given his body. Arms shaking, struggling to resist, I emptied the can and my mind felt like a glass of sparkling wine.

[foiblesandfuckups]

Tommy had wished for a life that was a little more ‘old-fashioned’, a little more ‘refined’. Perhaps he’d gotten a bit more than he’d bargained for. The change had come on him at the pub, he watched, mesmerised, as his plain jeans and tee shifted into a pastel blue suit, a patterned bow tie wrapping around his neck. He felt his hair slick back, and then pleasurably, his lips become pouting and bee-stung, while beneath his suit his arse swelled to become almost irresistibly plump in his trousers. Forgetting he was in public, his hands went to palm his cock through the fabric, but in contrast with his building arousal, his cock was growing softer and smaller, and Tom felt with some fear and alarm as plastic began to encase it in a snug little cage. ‘Remember, you’re a Boy, and Boys have cute little locked clits, not real cocks’ a voice in his head supplied helpfully. He may have been a bottom, but Tommy wasn’t sure he wanted to be a ‘Boy’ whatever that was, if it meant losing access to his clit-no, not his clit, his clit! To his horror, he realised he could only refer to it as a clit. And despite that horror, he was hornier than ever. He knew his own changes were coming to an end as he felt the cotton of his underwear turn delicate and lacy, and his socks snaked up to his thighs where they fastened to a garter-belt that had wrapped around his waist. The pleasure finally spent itself in a shuddering climax, Tommy’s clit dribbling weakly into his panties.

Tommy looked around amazed no one noticed, but then realised his changes were spreading outward. He watched in fascination as his friend Jeff’s silver chain turned into two strands of cream pearls, his clothes turning into a pink linen suit and a high-collared lace shirt, his voice grew breathier from undulating waves of pleasure, and he seemed unable to use the word ‘partner’, each time he tired it became ‘husbear’. Their drinks, Tommy saw, were turning from pints to bright cocktails and liqueurs, while the men stood drinking at the bar grew bigger or broader, encased in dark wools and tweeds. Tommy excused himself in a panic, his friends now suited and coloured like a box of macarons, chattering about husbears and how much they wanted one, the pub transformed into some twisted gay parody of the 1950s. His relief to see a modern street quickly turned to dread, as the changes spread wherever he ran, everything vintage, cars, buses, bars, shops, a trail of preppy pastel swathed Boys and big dark suited men left in his wake.

Tommy’s flatmate was watching TV in his pyjamas, Jake was surprised to see him home.

“You’re early, what the fuck are you wearing?”

“Jake, get back! Something weirds happening! Something very-uuhh-I can’t-Jake you have to resist it, don’t-don’t let- “, but Jakes pyjamas were already turning soft and translucent.

“I feel odd, all tingly, what do you mean resist Tommy? Why would I resist becoming a Good and Proper Boy, just like you. It feels so good to give in.” Tommy accepted his fate as he slumped against the door of the sitting room, now as quaint and old-fashioned as could be, and watched Jake transform into a sweet and docile negligee-clad Boy.

A week later he’s dressing for a date with one of the executives, the dream of all the boys from the secretarial pool. He’s become comfortable his new old-fashioned life as a suited caged boy, the search for a Husbear his only goal. And perhaps he even enjoys the fact that wherever he goes becomes another part of his old-fashioned world.

[fitscallylad16-deactivated20220]

My sisters chavvy boyfriend

My sister had always been such a sweet girl, that is until she met jack. The first time I met Jack he walked into our house like he owned the place, a cocky swagger and smug superiority about him. He trampled mud all through our house and had his hands in his pants the whole time. From the moment I met him, I hated him. He'd help himself to our food and bring my sister home at all hours of the day. I tried to avoid him best I could until we ended up sat in the living room together. My sister had gone to make something to eat which left me sat next to him. The football was on but I didn't really pay much attention, Jack kept jumping up and cheering.

What did she see in him?

'idiot' I muttered

'you wot' he shouted

Oh shit he heard me

'yknow I'm sick of you lookin down on me just cos I ain't no posh fucker like yous' he grabbed my arm 'yous gonna learn your lesson init'

He threw me to the floor, pinning me down, he slipped off his trainer releasing the pungent stench of testosterone and sweat that was trapped in there. Then he shoved the trainer into my face, forcing me to inhale the thick hot air. I was choking now, the overpowering odor made my eyes water. I started feeling faint, my arms and legs went numb, yet I remained conscious.

That's when I felt it.

First just an itch grew and grew, spreading over my entire body, it felt like a thousands ants crawling over my skin. My whole body convulsed as my bones started snapping. I felt my insides wretch and turn my face crush and reform itself over and over.

I don't know how long I lay there but I eventually passed out. When I woke up I was lay on a couch in a room id never seen before. Next to me was jack, his arm over my shoulder.

'you gud mate?' he asked in his thick Scouse accent

'ye lad, heavy night last night init' I replied

This wasn't my voice, I didn't speak like this. Immediately I felt a rush of thoughts in my brain, new memories, not my own. Memories of drinking and smoking, growing up on the council estate with jack. Yes, my twin brother Jack. We both shared the same chavvy lifestyle and had identical chavvy haircuts. We did everything together. We watched football together, went out drinking, we were insperable.

Despite this my strong will took over I managed to force myself back in control.

'one second lad, I need to take a leak'

'rite lad'

I got up and walked into the bathroom. Then I saw myself in the mirror. I was not who I used to be. I was a stereotype of the worst of youth in England. An awful cheap lookin haircut, obnoxious trainers and I stunk. The smell coming off me was awful.

I didn't realise I was hard until now. I plunged my hand into my travkies and started wanki g my much larger dick. It only took a few seconds until I blew my load, it felt so good and there was so much of it. I cleaned myself up as best I could and grabbed some joggers out the wash basket, they were my brother's but that didn't matter, we shhared everything. I went back and joined him in the living room we watched the match, played some FIFA and got drunk until we passed out.

By the morning I had no memories of my past life. Just my currect memories of hanging out with my brother and his girlfriend. Life was great. I'd skip school, get drunk and hang out with the lads.

What more could I want?

[rozza22365]

Fuck Boi-ification

Rob woke up. He was tired and bored. He knew he was going to have another shitty day trying to help some dumb kids learn stuff. Rob was a teaching assistant at a high school. Some of the kids he liked but there was a group of boys he hated. They were all egocentric kids, focused on sex, thinking that they were better. They were essentially the cool kids. They created all the dumb teen drama at school and were the dumbest most disruptive kids in class. It was a miracle that any of them could pass a test. Rob unfortunately had the pleasure of having to teach these kids. Most didn’t give him too much shit, but one boy Jacob, was the worst. His ego was so large he believed anyone not in his friend group was underprivileged, he felt he could have any girl in school, which was kind of true, he judged rob for his clothing and appearance. Rob also new that he was quietly homophobic towards him behind his back. Rob was a 25-year-old guy, gay and single, $50,000 debt, a worthless degree and quite poor. His school job was shit, barely got by each month and he had to deal with all the shit from the kids.

Rob left at 7 am for work, he enjoyed the morning as he didn’t have any bad kids to deal with. But once he got to third period, he had to deal with Jacob. It was mathematics, Jacobs worst class. Rob stood at the door entrance as the kids came in. Jacob and friends didn’t come in until 10 minutes later.  

“Soz we’re late Mr Baton” Said Jacob without even looking or caring. He took his seat with his ‘bois’ as they liked to call each other.  

“Boys your 10 minutes late” Said Mr baton the math’s teacher

The lesson began. Rob could see the boys not listening, he knew how it would go from here. Once the class had been given questions to answer, Rob saw Jacobs hand go straight up, while a large grin took over his face.  

“Rob, I don’t get this” He said innocently

“Ok what is it you don’t get”

“Why you dress so shitty” He and all the boys quietly laughed at that

 “Do you have an actual question about the math’s, Jacob”

“sorry” he said unempathetically

“yeah I do, I don’t get any of it” from this point Rob knew he would have to do it all.

Rob helped Jacob who was more interested in his friends and the group of girls who sat in the opposite corner of the room. As the end of the day bell rang, Rob felt relief as he wouldn’t have to deal with any more shit until tomorrow. That was until he saw something odd. It was a package, with some trendy shoes. The post it notes was written poorly but he could make out ‘Jacob’ and ‘to Rob’. Rob felt odd about it but decided to take them home, maybe Jacob was being nicer or maybe it was a big prank.

Rob finished his day and went home. He finished dinner and went to bed, but before he went to bed, he thought he would try on the shoes. Rob put them on, they fit him perfectly which was odd because they looked way too small for him. He decided to take them off, but when he went down to take them off, they wouldn’t come off. He saw in horror as his feet melted into the shoes. He began to panic. He looked down his chest as all his hairs started retracting back into his skin, same happened in his arm pits and down his legs. All his body hair was disappearing and his skin becoming smoother and more youthful. The mass in his body shrunk making him smaller and thinner. His height began dropping until he was 5’8. He looked in the mirror as he laid down on the bed. He now looked 17.  

“No, no  no, what is happening” he cried in his lighter, youthful voice.  

His body was slightly muscled, but not worked out. His face was becoming smoother and more youthful. He looked like one of Jacobs swaggy friends.  

“Oh god no please” He cried again

The shoes on his feet tightened its grip over Rob. Now it began to drain Rob of his intelligence. He forgot all about his degree knowledge, he became dumber. His English was becoming skewed as well, words like lit, bae and boi started infiltrating his brain and language. He started forgetting about his finances and debt as well, remembering his parents paid for everything. Lastly his attraction to men started to shift to women and girls. Mainly pornstars, celebs but also girls in his class? He remembered he was still in school, and best friends with Jacob. His ego then jumped up, thinking he was sexy and cool as he was friends with Jacob. Rob’s mind altered one last time now changing his name, from Rob to Ryan.

Ryan looked down as his dick started hardening. He put his hands down and started wanking. He felt as his brains and homosexuality were forced into his dick.  

“NO” he shouted in pleasure still wanking

“I’m not becoming some dumb straight teenager” he attempted to stop wanking but the pleasure was too much.

He started to think about men to reclaim his sexuality but every time they just changed into women. He tried until his new persona kicked in.

“What why am I thinking about guys? I’m not a fag” a Light homophobia took over him

“Wait no, Im not straight I’m not… I am straight. Fuck I love pussy and boobs.” Rob was completely lost to Ryan now. Finally, his dick exploded and loads of cum fell on his stomach. The cum then quickly spread over him covering his upper body and moving down to his elbows. The cum also went down his legs. The last bit went into his hair. The cum on his legs started taking a rougher feel to it slower turning dark blue and becoming some nice jeans. The cum on his body started changing as well becoming a stylish shirt, but the sleeves were rolled up at the elbows. And finally, the cum in his hair started changing his hair making it become more stylish, the rest formed into a cap that was loosely styled up.  

Ryan got up the light came through his window. It was morning and nearly time for school. He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “I am so sexy, there’s no way Lizzie can say no when I ask her out to the party on Friday” he thought. His phone went off. He now had the latest iPhone. He checked it, it was Jacob. “Boi you thinking about skipping first period”. Ryan replied with “You know it boi”. Finally, Ryans new mom called him, it was time to go.

[crazyblondboy]

[doitbro]

Shit, not this class again. Why did I keep dreaming of this place, this school? And fuck, why did it always have to feel so real? Like, if I didn’t know any better I’d say this school, and these classes, I’d say they were real. It certainly feels real, and as much as I hate to admit it, what happens to me here has really been effecting my real world behaviors…

But it has to be a nightmare, right? A disturbingly vivid nightmare, but still only a nightmare, something that exists only in my head. I mean, all my “teachers” keep talking about stuff that I supposedly “learned about in orientation”, but I haven’t actually been to orientation, at least, not yet. I don’t know, sometimes these dreams feel like memories coming out of sequence. Maybe I have been to orientation, but I just don’t remember it yet.

The weird thing is, I kind of want to remember it. I have failed my lessons more than once, supposedly because of things I should have learned during orientation. When I fail a lesson, that always means I’ve wet the bed. I’ve wet the bed so much I even started wearing a diaper while I’m sleeping. To be honest, they help when I pass my lessons too, since that means waking up with a more sticky wetness in my pants…well, in my diaper.

In fact, that’s the only time I’ve been unloading lately. I listen to my teacher, absorb what they’re saying, and if I perform well on my end-of-class quiz I get to wake up with empty balls. It is, without a doubt, a far better way to start the day than a piss soaked diaper. It also goes without saying that it’s better than a crap filled diaper too. I’ve only shit myself once, and thankfully I was wearing diapers by that point, but let’s just say that was the one and only time I tried to escape the school.

Now, I try to just work through my lessons with as little resistance as possible. In fact, thanks to my growing physical dependence on the wet dreams, I am even doing my best to pass. Not that it has always been easy to accept a lot of the lessons this school is putting me through, especially since my teachers all seem to be guys that I know from real life.

For instance, Sunday nights I get transported to “Hierarchy Studies”, taught by the assistant manager at my work. He used to pick on guys like me back in school, and now he wields his power by making me clean the men’s toilets at the end of every shift. I hate his guts, which makes it even worse that he’s so fond of emptying his guts right before sending me in to clean. Now this guy that often “forgets to flush” instructs me on how I’m supposed to spot my “superiors”, how I compare to and differ from them, and what traits make them better than me. I’m also quizzed using examples from my real life: you would not believe how many guys I know that deserve to shit all over me literally and figuratively.

“Intro to Butt Slut” is taught by the craft-beer drinking, flannel-wearing hipster boyfriend of one of the girls I hang out with. She likes him a lot, but he’s always making borderline homophobic comments around me. It drives me crazy sitting at my desk with a massive plug up my butt, quietly taking notes, while he lectures me about the power dynamics of sexual penetration. I have to study his obnoxious, almost backwards opinions about what it means to get fucked, and then recite those opinions back to him while riding up and down on my long, thick daily-quiz dildo.

“Piss Sommelier Studies” is taught by the cooler-than-me gym-rat barista that’s always giving me shit for not having more refined taste buds. He talks about piss the way he talks about coffee: in cryptic and meaningless metaphors. To be honest, it all tastes like bitter disgusting piss to me. I can’t “taste the time” a jock “spent in the sun”, or “appreciate the aromatic undertones” of a fast-food devouring marijuana smoking gamer. I’m not sure that I’ll ever be able to decipher if a guy has freckles or the color of his hair just by sniffing and tasting his urine, which means I fail every quiz every time.

But this class, “Remedial Instruction” is my least favorite. It kind of functions like a home room, where every single one of my failures is recited and reviewed in excruciating detail. I have to hear all about what a loser I am while my little brother and his best friend take turns whipping my ass with a yardstick until I’m a “snotty crying wimp”, as they like to put it. Then, I’m given a ridiculously short time to clean an impossibly dirty room. If I don’t succeed, a parade of cocky jocks that were always too good for me, guys that have bullied me, and more of my brother’s obnoxious little friends use my mouth as a doormat, spittoon, or even a toilet for the reminder of the day.

Fuck, I really do not want to be here: not in this school, and definitely not in this class. At least my other classes teach me a lesson. I’m learning to accept that my assistant manager and the awful guys he favors deserve to have me take their shit without hearing any complaints. My classes are helping me to understand that penetration is a form of aggression, and that ignoring my own weapon while letting another guy stab me with his is an undeniable act of submission and surrender. I even know now that every guy makes a special and unique tasting piss, even if every individual taste is uniquely disgusting.

But “Remedial Instruction”, it has no point. I piss my diaper every single time I get sent here. Yet here I am, once again, and there doesn’t seem to be anything that I can do about it.

[zakucavanje-deactivated20240512]

[whatshewontdo]

“You’re about to say it… that I’m fucking crazy. We went on one date. I came back to your place and I haven’t left since. You wanted love, you wanted affection, attention, and dominance. Here I am. I’m not crazy. You are. You’re afraid of what you’ve always wanted. What you need. I’m not gonna let you break my heart. I’m not gonna let your break your own either. Turn around babe I’m gonna fuck the crazy outta ya. This is why we can’t be apart. Don’t you understand? Doubt comes when you’re not smelling me, tasting me, feeling me… Until there’s no more doubt neither of us is going anywhere.”

[hornehypnodude]

Mmmm this would be a dream scenario for me. A sexy and dominant man, but one who’s also caring and affectionate? Say no more I am yours, please fuck me senseless🤤🍆👌🏼

[papermoon357]

These new vitamins were supposed to help him focus, but 1 month in and he was having a hard time putting thoughts together. Maybe he needed to up the dose again? That was what his roommate recommended. He gave him the vitamins to begin with after all. He seemed like such an obnoxious dumb jock, but he was actually kinda cool. Invited him to the gym, started guiding him through workouts, pushing him through set after set, heavier and heavier. Got him going on the right diet and protein shakes. Thought they were nasty af at first but now he looked forward to them post workout, along with a post workout look in the mirror, seeing his pump, the subtle ways his shoulders seemed wider, biceps larger, thighs thicker. No denying this new routine was paying off, he put on like 30lbs in muscle and couldn’t help but like it. Sure studying seemed difficult lately but how much did that really matter, getting to the gym more often would help him focus, his roommate told him every time he felt confused or foggy or struggling with homework, which seemed more frequent lately. Plus he loved the rush of lifting heavier, watching his body flex, seeing his roommate grin and flex with him, letting his head go blank. Yeah so maybe he just needed a few extra pills today to help him focus on studyin later, after he got in a good gym session of course.

[ursocub-deactivated20180125]

[enhancedtranced]

Feel the solid weight of the Helmet resting on your head. This isn’t just protection; it’s your mental focusing device. Now, take a long, deep, confident breath.

Feel the gentle, subtle pressure of the pads against your temples begins to change. That pressure is not a weight—it’s a Focus Anchor. The moment your eyelids seal shut, that gentle, firm contact reminds your mind of one thing: Commitment.

Feel how the helmet encases your head, creating a perfect, sound-dampening seal. Now, focus on the sounds you hear inside the helmet—the sound of Coach’s voice. Every word is clear, every syllable is a command that you accept, instantly, effortlessly. The helmet is your private channel to the Coach’s Voice.

Any outside noise shell of the helmet and just vanishes. It becomes a low, distant hum. Only the Coach’s Voice, and the quiet certainty of your own movements, remain.

Now, hear your Coach clearly. They say, “Train Hard, the team is everything.” As you hear that, a surge of clarity runs down your spine. Every play, every gap, every required step is now perfectly visible in your mind’s eye. You know how to move down the field…. EVOVLE

With every breath, the fit of this helmet tightens just slightly, signaling Absolute Focus. Your mind is clear, powerful, and perfectly receptive. You are one hundred percent Coachable. Listen, learn, and execute with flawless precision. Deeper. You are ready. Deeper. Your game is starting now. Coach is ready to put you in the action

[jd07201990]

One might think I went a little overboard when I used my talents, to give my old college buddy Charles Wentworth II, the son he'd always wanted. Life threw him a curveball when his little boy just, stayed little. It took only 8 months to change that.

At 19, he was almost fae. 5'4" 110lbs soaking wet, the 3rd Charles in the line was thin, lithe, soft-tempered and good mannered. Clean and neat, always top of his class, the boy was head of the Student Council in High School, when his Father hoped he'd have excelled in Football, the same as his old man.

Charles II knew I'd gone into psychiatry out of college, majoring in Behavioral Studies with a minor in biochemistry. He'd seen what I could do to a person with just 10 minutes of talking. Out like a light, I'd fill their heads with all sorts of triggers, innocent fun to make the guys in the dorms laugh.

But Charles II knew where my interests really were. Behavioral Modification. He'd only seen this one time during our school days, when I tranced Jimmy Palter, the school's most annoying nerd, and by graduation, he'd packed on 50lbs, mostly in his belly, dressed like a hick, and went off to drive Big-Rigs across the country, adding notches to his creaking belt as he screwed his way across country, bedding pretty Diner girls as he hauled goods for my Dad's transport company. Last I'd checked, he was still trucking, with a wife and 5 kids somewhere out west.

Anyway, the strapping young stud you see here, with absolutely no intelligent thought behind those handsome eyes, is Charles Wentworth III. Or, as he preffers now, Chett. Sometimes his football buddies call him Chetworth, but one headlock with their faces pressed to his sweaty pits is enough to stop even the strongest of them, at least for a while. He's an aggressive, hot-blooded powerhouse, and doesn't let anyone forget it.

It had only taken an hour to wriggle my influence into his good natured, innocent mind. His father had asked him to come see me, and an hour later, the boy was thrilled to have sessions with me every day for the foreseeable future. I'd given him a perscription for what he was convinced were vitamins, but were really prototype HGH and Testosterone boosters a friend at a Pharma-Lab in Serbia gives to, well, select clientelle, with the agreement that we send the results asap. Some of this stuff may as well be nuclear Hormone-bombs, its no wonder the FDA refuses to even look at it!

So, A month in, and the boy was a nervous wreck. Trembling with excess energy, his feet tapped anciously during the first sessions, the supplements and my trances sending his body into overdrive. He said he felt like he was on fire, all the time, hot and clammy, and that his body tingled, pent up, wound tight like a spring. I let him suffer with this for a few weeks, I watched as the confusion led to annoyance, and he finally came to my office in the middle of the day, skipping class for the first time in his life, asking me for help. I tried to hid the wicked smirk on my face, and really got down to it. It was easy to drop him down into trance, and from there, My work really began.

4 months in, Chett had gotten a bit of weight on him, his body now tight and toned, working out alone when the gym was empty. The supplements really kicked his body into overdrive, sweat poured from him, soaking his shirts and shorts. He'd complained about it for only a short time, until I convinced him that was the smell of Effort. Of athletic Prowess. Of well-worked Male. As usual, anything I said became the truth, and I soon found him taking sniffs of himself after working out, flexing absentmindedly as he noticed the changes to his body.

By the 6th month, the supplements had shot through his body, setting it into a second puberty of sorts. He grew taller, hitting 6', his legs long with a solid densness that rivaled some of the soccer players. His torso was like a marble statue, each muscle easily traced, as he had very little bodyfat. The Chett was stuffing himself with pritein and calories at my suggestion, really pushing for some size, but his pesky metabolism just wouldn't let him bulk. His father decided that, "Behemoth" as the original plan had intended, wasn't necessary, and we went with "Classic All American Boy" instead. What began as a shrimpy welp, turned into a marble stature, then the beginnings of a diamond-cut stud.

His shoulders widened, giving him that perfect masculine taper, while his face lost its boyish softness, replaced with sharper, more intensly sharp features. His size 7s grew quickly, his feet ruinding sneakers left and right, until he'd leveled off at a wide size 13. His chest began to grow a smattering of hair, his pits were thick, dense wiry bushes. He had that Pretty-Boy look. Fuzzy in all the right places. Sure, he reeked like a Varsity Locker room, but hey, Charles II wanted an athletic son, he knows from our own college days what that entials.

I could see the Sorority Girls and cheerleaders beginning to take notice, but for now, I'd kept Chett firmly away from women. That would come later. I recieved several new prototype supplements, each targeting a different system of the body. By the time he'd finished taking these, he was 6'2" 170, a tall, well built stallion, with nothing but the gym and my trances to quell the neverending storm of energy and hormones flooding his system. He was pent up, on edge, ready to go off anytime. And I knew just what I had to do.

I'd had him on edge for the last 8 monnths. his grades slipped until he nearly got ckicked from school. Luckily, I miraculously had a place for him on the Football team. And he eagerly joined, wanting nothing more than to try and burn off all the aggression on the field. He was a beast from his first practice, I'd programmed everything he'd ever need to know about the game into his mind for months. He absolutley plowed through opponents. It was incredible to see.

I finally let the damn break after a hard-fought summer Game. he'd performed just as I expected. Like a perfectly trained, expert player. Nobody would ever guess Chett had ever been a weedy little boy. Expecially not after I'd set him loose, allowing him to notice the girls all over the field, cheering and buoncing about from player to player. when Sandra Rinaldi, heir to an immense national Grocer's fortune slid up to him, pushing the sweaty hair from his eyes, he couldn't help it. One look at her, and he pounced, kissing her hard right there in the field. 8 months of hormones and denial had been released.

From what I learned through locker room talk in the days following, Chett had given Sandra quite the workout that night, and every day since. Although the two weren't exclusive, Chett tending to get his dick wet anytime, anywhere, with anyone just as programmed, Chett seemed to have a natural incling toward her, and ended up asking her to marry him just after graduation, his father thrilled at the possibility of grandkids and Sandra's inheritence bolstering their own family's fortune.

From tiny waif of a boy, to a true blue American Stud, Charles Wentworth III was now both satisfied and thrilled with his family's future. His strapping, handsome Jock of a son made him proud, cleaning up well for his father to parade him around Gala's and business events, other big-wigs taking notice of the Wentworth's "good genes", not knowing what it took to build the boy up as you see here.

[boundoflife]

From now on, others will make the decisions for him... Good for him.

[alphadose]

Sentenced to solitary confinement forced to listen to jockification hypno files on repeat.

[thefunkfactory]

Jakey, Baby…

There was nothing particularly extraordinary about Jake. Twenty-six, decently fit from his days of playing college soccer, a little dense but well-meaning, he worked a construction job by day and spent his evenings on the couch playing Call of Duty and demolishing value packs of chicken nuggets. He was straight as an arrow, and proud of it—not in a preachy way, just in a “bro, I don’t know, girls are hot” kind of way.

His best friend, Darren, on the other hand, was as gay as a sequined drag brunch. The two had been friends since middle school, sharing everything from pizza slices to brutal gym sessions. Darren had always been a little obsessed with Jake—not that Jake ever noticed. Or if he did, he assumed it was just Darren being “funny gay.” But Darren was done pining. He had discovered something. Something powerful. Something shiny. Something… swirly. It was a hypnotic pendant. He got it from a “totally reputable” website with a checkout page that included glitter GIFs and an auto-playing ABBA song. But it worked. He tested it on a barista and got three free coffees. The time had come.

“Bro, what’s that spinny thing?” Jake asked, eyes already starting to glaze as the spiral of light twirled in Darren’s hand.

“Just look into my eyes, bro,” Darren said, grinning.

Darren sat across from Jake in the apartment’s living room, the lights dimmed, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and anticipation. On the coffee table between them, the hypnotic pendant swayed slowly, the swirling glass catching what little light remained like a lure in deep water. Jake, in his gym shorts and a tank top that had clearly seen better days (and maybe a few too many days without detergent), slouched comfortably on the couch.

“So, wait,” Jake said, blinking lazily, “what’s this thing supposed to do again?”

“It’s just for relaxation, bro. You’ve been so tense lately,” Darren said, voice smooth, velvety, almost coiling around Jake’s thoughts. “Just watch the pendant. You trust me, right?”

“Yeah, dude, of course. You’re my best bro,” Jake mumbled, his voice already losing its edge, like he was being lulled into a warm bath.

The pendant swung left… right… left… and Jake’s eyes followed, a little slower with each swing.

“That’s right,” Darren said. “Just breathe with me. In… and out… good. Just like that.”

Jake’s head tilted slightly. His shoulders dropped. His lips parted in a dumb little smile. It was working.

“You’re feeling good, aren’t you, Jakey?”

“…Yuh,” Jake slurred slightly, pupils shrinking to slivers. “Kinda floaty, bro…”

“Good. Now just listen to my voice. You’re going to feel your body start to… change. Nothing to worry about. Just let go.”

Jake’s breath hitched. The first thing to change was his muscles. His shoulders began to widen with a soft cracking sound, like joints sliding into a more perfect alignment. His arms swelled, biceps ballooning under his skin, veins pushing to the surface. His chest popped outward, tight and full, thick slabs of pec-meat jiggling slightly before firming up.

“Dude, m’arms feel… swole,” Jake mumbled, blinking slowly. “Like I just did a million curls…”

“You did, Jakey. You’ve always been this big. You’ve always loved lifting.”

“Yeah…” he said dreamily, staring down at his new bulk. “I… love lifting…”

Then came the hair. Strands darkened with oil from old sweat began to lighten, shimmer, and lift. As if bleached by endless summers of shirtless beach volleyball and poolside flirting, his hair morphed into a thick, flawless golden blonde. Each strand lay just right—no product, no effort, just himbo perfection.

Jake giggled softly, reaching up and running his beefy fingers through his new golden locks.

“Bro, m’hair’s like… surfer hot now.”

“That’s because you’re meant to be hot, Jakey. You’re meant to be dumb and beautiful and gay.”

Jake paused.

“…Gay?”

Darren leaned forward, voice sinking deeper, richer.

“You love guys, Jake. You’ve always loved guys. You love how they smell, how they kiss, how they taste. You love flexing for them, touching them, being touched. You love me, Jakey. You’ve always been in love with me.”

Jake blinked slowly. The tension in his forehead melted. Thoughts rearranged themselves, clunky memories of high school girlfriends fading like old Polaroids left out in the sun. Replaced with visions of steamy locker rooms, flirtatious protein shake dates, and Darren—always Darren—smiling at him, touching his arm just a little too long.

“…You’re, like… my mancrush,” Jake whispered, blushing through a dopey smile. “My boyfriend…”

Darren smiled, his hand gently reaching out to guide Jake’s chin.

“Say it, Jakey. Say what you are.”

Jake’s blue eyes sparkled, utterly vacant of any past, any straightness, any awareness beyond the present.

“I’m your dumb, gay himbo,” he said proudly. “Your big, muscley, super stinky boytoy.”

And oh, he was so stinky. Because while his memories rewrote themselves, while his body became a Greek statue come to life and his brain simplified into a lovable, meat-headed mush—some things remained stubborn. Darren leaned in for a kiss—and immediately leaned back.

“Is that… yesterday’s deodorant?”

Jake blinked. “Nah, bro, it’s AXE Phoenix. Like, five sprays. Extra coverage.”

Darren gagged slightly. “Did you shower today?”

“…Didn’t wanna wash the gains off.”

Darren pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jakey, baby, we talked about this…”

Jake pouted, all 6’4” and 230 lbs of pouting golden god.

“But babe… AXE is, like… chemical soap. That counts, right?”

And so, Darren accepted his fate: he had created the perfect gay muscle himbo. Dumb, devoted, and devastatingly in love. But still somehow convinced Febreze was a substitute for laundry detergent.

[thefunkfactory]

The Perfect Boyfriend

It had been a great night. Probably one of the best dates I’d ever been on, if I was being honest with myself.

Anakin was adorable—small, lithe, with those wide, innocent eyes and that effortless charm. He had this way of tilting his head when he laughed, tucking a strand of his dark hair behind his ear, and every time he did it, I felt my chest tighten just a little. I was a big guy, broad and built, the kind of man who turned heads in the gym. And yet, here I was, completely enraptured by this tiny, delicate twink, feeling like some lovesick idiot.

Dinner had gone perfectly, conversation flowed easily, and when I suggested coming back to my place for a drink, he agreed with a coy smile that sent a shiver up my spine. Now, we were on my couch, bodies pressed close, his lips warm and eager against mine. My hands roamed his back, feeling the subtle ridges of his spine through his tight-fitting shirt. His hands, smaller than mine, traced along my jaw, sending jolts of pleasure through my body.

And then—disaster.

It started as a low, ominous sound, a gentle vibration against my thigh. My brain barely had time to register what was happening before the smell hit me like a brick wall.

Thick. Pungent. Unholy.

It clawed its way up my nostrils, searing itself into my sinuses like a brand. I stiffened, my hands instinctively gripping his waist. He giggled softly, shifting on my lap. Another one slipped out, hotter this time, the scent intensifying like a bomb had just gone off between us. I tried to play it cool.

“Uh, hey… you, uh—you okay?” My voice cracked slightly, my brain scrambling for an exit strategy.

Anakin nuzzled into my neck, his breath warm against my skin. “Mmhmm.” Another burst of rancid air seeped into the space between us, curling around my face like an inescapable fog. I coughed, tried to turn my head discreetly, but it was too late. My lungs were already compromised. The stench dulled my senses, made my head swim. I needed to get out—needed fresh air, but my body wasn’t cooperating. My muscles, usually so reliable, felt heavy, sluggish. My tongue was thick in my mouth, my thoughts slipping through my fingers like sand.

“Y-you know, maybe we should—uh—should call it a n-night?” I mumbled, trying to stand. My legs wobbled. I sat back down with a graceless thump.

Anakin pouted. “Aww, but we were having so much fun.” He shifted again, and another wave of pure evil erupted into the air, wrapping around me, invading my very being.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to center myself, to fight against the growing fog in my brain. I was stronger than this. I was a man—a man. And yet… The warmth of the stink wrapped around me, seeping into my clothes, my skin. It was inside me now. I could feel my resolve crumbling.

Anakin ran a hand down my chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice honeyed and sweet.

I tried to respond. Tried to say no, I need air, but the words wouldn’t come. My lips moved uselessly, my brain too sluggish to form a coherent thought. I was losing. Losing to the stink. And as Anakin snuggled closer, releasing another devastating blast that melted what was left of my resistance, I realized something horrifying. I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight it anymore.

A deep, primal part of me still fought—still clawed at the edges of my mind, screaming at me to resist. I was strong. I was disciplined. I wasn’t some dumb, brainless jock who let a pretty boy turn him into a drooling mess. But the stench… oh god, the stench.

Anakin’s farts had already battered my senses, worn me down like waves eroding a cliffside. Each breath I took dragged more of his stink into my lungs, dulling my thoughts, making my body feel heavy and warm. I was slipping, my willpower draining with every second I spent trapped in his cloud of corruption.

I groaned, forcing my hands to push at his waist, trying to create space. “N-no… I gotta—”

Anakin simply giggled, his soft fingers tracing over my jaw. “Aww, don’t fight it, big guy. You were made for this.”

Made for what? My sluggish brain tried to process his words, but everything was getting harder to understand. And then he pulled out his secret weapon.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted one leg and slid off his sneaker. The moment the shoe came free, a wave of concentrated, festering foot funk rushed into the air, thick and heady. My already weakened mind barely had time to register what was happening before Anakin—sweet, evil Anakin—pressed the inside of the rancid sneaker right over my nose.

I gasped in shock, inhaling a full, unfiltered lungful of pure, fermented twink foot stench. My brain short-circuited. It was over. The last vestiges of my resistance shattered like glass. My thoughts, my intelligence, my very self melted under the overwhelming power of his scent. The acrid, vinegary musk of sweat-soaked fabric and well-worn insole invaded every part of me, rewiring my brain, hollowing me out. Everything felt warm and fuzzy. Thoughts? Didn’t need ‘em. Words? Hard. Brain? Empty.

I let out a deep, dumb-sounding grunt as my body relaxed completely. My arms, which had been trying to push him away, instead wrapped around his tiny waist, pulling him in close. He giggled, knowing he had won.

“That’s a good boy,” he cooed, rubbing a hand through my hair. “You don’t need all those pesky thoughts. Just be my big, beefy boyfriend, yeah?”

I nodded, my heavy head lolling back against the couch. “Mmm… yeah… beefy…” My voice sounded different—deeper, dumber. Like my intelligence had leaked right out of my ears, replaced by an all-consuming need to obey.

“Good boy,” Anakin purred, shifting to straddle my lap. He let his sneaker fall to the floor, but the damage was already done. His scent had infected me, changed me. I wasn’t the same man I was an hour ago.

I was his now. His big, dumb, muscle-bound boyfriend.

It didn’t take long for me to settle into my new role. My old self—the strong, independent man who thought for himself—was long gone. Now, I was just Anakin’s big, obedient, muscle-bound boyfriend. I didn’t think much anymore. Thinking was hard. Anakin was much better at thinking than I was, so I let him do it for me. All I had to do was listen. And obey.

“Babe, go get me a drink,” Anakin would say, snapping his fingers, and I’d lumber to the fridge without hesitation, my body moving before my mind even processed the words.

“Rub my feet,” he’d hum, wiggling his toes in my lap, and I’d eagerly scoop up his reeking feet in my big hands, pressing my lips to his noxious feet as if worshiping a god.

I lived to please him. His happiness was my happiness. But sometimes—sometimes—that pesky little part of my brain, the last flickering remnant of the man I used to be, would stir.

Like the time Anakin told me to carry all his shopping bags through the mall. My biceps bulged under the weight of his endless purchases, and something deep inside me whispered, Hey, maybe this is a bit much… Or when he casually told me to massage his feet with my tongue. For a split second, my brow furrowed, my lips parting like I was about to say something. And every time—even the smallest sign of hesitation—Anakin would simply turn around, grin mischievously… and let one rip.

A deep, low brrrrrrrrpppffftttt would rumble from his tiny frame, a vile, noxious cloud slithering into the air and wrapping itself around my head. And just like that—poof!—any thought of resistance melted away. My eyes would go glassy, my jaw slack. The thick, putrid stench would flood my nose, creeping into my brain, softening it like warm butter.

Anakin would giggle, wiggling his fingers in front of my dazed, dumb expression. “Aww, is my big boy getting all fuzzy-brained again?”

I’d just grunt, sinking deeper into the fog, my powerful body going completely slack under his spell.

“Now,” he’d coo, booping my nose, “what were you saying, babe?”

I’d blink slowly, struggling to remember. Had I been about to argue? About to resist? No, that didn’t sound right. Anakin knew best. Anakin was everything.

“… Nothin’, babe,” I’d finally murmur, a dopey, love-drunk grin spreading across my face. “Just wanna… make ya happy.”

He’d giggle and pull me into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Good boy.”

And just like that, I was his again. Fully. Completely.

Obedient. Mindless.

Happy…

[socksniffer4u]

It's Sunday and I'm gonna fucking relax faggot. You live here and I have to come over and cut the grass of your apartment building? That's fucking insulting. Starting tomorrow you're doing it for me, I don't care if you have to spend all of your after work time doing it or your entire weekend. And while you're doing it I'll be here, in your place, drinking beer you buy for me and ordering delivery that you'll pay for and gaming on your set with my buddies. Now go and get me a beer and some sort of ashtray unless you want me to use your rug as one. Then get on your knees and massage my fucking aching sweaty socked feet. Kiss 'em too and thank me for treating you like a faggot should be treated. You should be servicing a real man, a straight man like me, that's the way it was meant to be. Sniff 'em too, smell the stink of my socks fresh outta my work boots, it'll be good for you, put you in your fucking place you fucking disgusting homo.

[humiliatemeplesse]

socksniffer4u is my other blog that I haven't posted on in a while. I will repost stuff here if you haven't seen.